Two Testaments (24 page)

“Yes, I already saw,” he answered quickly. “Thanks.”

“Well, fine. Now if you find you need anything else, you just let us know. The children are just finishing up afternoon classes. They’re eager to meet you. Would you mind coming with me now?”

Obediently Hussein followed the old nun through the courtyard and into the basement of the building that M. Vidal had called the parsonage. In the classroom, he stared at the children, counting silently to himself. Over forty of them. Kids of every age. Each one rose and introduced himself. Hussein met eyes with the Arab boy called Hakim and almost smiled before he caught himself. He wasn’t here to make friends.

“Ophélie Duchemin,” a little girl was saying. The carbon copy of her mother. A cute kid with pigtails. Hussein felt sick to his stomach.

When all the introductions had been made, Mother Griolet dismissed the children for afternoon play. “The children have thirty minutes of
récréation
before they do their chores. Dinner is at seven. Would you like to rest for a while?”

“
Oui, merci.
I’d like to be alone.”

“Go ahead then. Tomorrow I’ll fill you in on our rules, chores, and the way school works.”

Hussein hung on the edge of the courtyard, watching the kids at play. From the corner of his eye, he saw a young woman waving at him. Leaving a group of children, she walked over to him. Anne-Marie Duchemin.

The emaciated woman he had last seen at the port in Algiers looked healthier. “Healthy” was the polite way to put it. His friends in the Casbah would call her a
nana
. A real number. Shining black hair and dark, lustrous eyes, with thick lashes and full lips. And, he thought, moving his eyes down her body, a shape that any teenage boy could not help but notice.

“Hussein! You’re here!” He stiffened as she took his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m so glad you made it.”

“Yeah, me too,” he mumbled. “Thanks for all your help.”

She ruffled his hair. “Welcome to St. Joseph. I think you’ll like it here.” She turned and called out, “
Coucou
, Ophélie! Come over here and meet Hussein.”

The pretty little girl skipped across the courtyard to her mother. Hussein longed to disappear. If he didn’t know them, if they were just things to be eliminated, then he could do it.

“I’ve already met Hussein, Mama, in class.” The child beamed up at him. “Mama said she met you when she was leaving Algeria. I’m glad you’re here.” She touched his arm with her small hand, and suddenly her big brown eyes looked imploring.

“Did you see them? Papa and Moustafa? How are they? Please, how are they?”

Again the sick feeling overtook him, and his skin felt clammy all over. “Fine. Moustafa and David are fine,” he stammered. They wanted more details; he could see it in their eyes. His head was swimming. More details about the men who had sheltered him and arranged his escape. More details about the men he had betrayed to Ali.

“I feel sick,” he murmured, and he didn’t have to act to make it seem real. “I need to lie down.”

“Oh, of course, of course.” Anne-Marie touched his head with her warm hand. “How rude of us. You must be completely worn out. Do you want me to show you to the dormitory?”

“No, thanks, I’ve already seen it.” Hussein left, almost running, hearing Anne-Marie Duchemin assure her daughter that he would tell them about her papa and Moustafa later.

On his cot, Hussein fell facedown and wept. He hated himself for his tears. He had to be brave, like his Arab brothers. Not a coward! If only they wouldn’t be kind to him here. And not ask him questions about those young men.

He knelt on the floor beside his cot. “There is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet.”

He collapsed again on the cot, but his head was still spinning, his stomach cramping. He made it to the boys’ bathroom, where he hung his head over the sink and vomited.

Gabriella lay on her bed, the shutters closed. The pain had begun near the nape of her neck, working upward until her whole head was throbbing. Feeling nauseated, she had declined dinner. A migraine, Mme Leclerc had assured her with several
ooh là làs
to go with the diagnosis.

Gabriella relished the silence in the darkness of her room. The clanking dishes, the silverware being set on a plate, the burst of laughter from the girls around the dinner table, every sound had been like a shrill, piercing siren meant to drive her mad. But now the meal was over, and the girls were studying quietly in their rooms.

“You’re just worried,” Caroline had commented matter-of-factly as she gave Gabriella two aspirins. “You’re doing too much—with those orphans and teaching David’s class.” She raised her eyebrows when she pronounced his name. “You’re just worn out, that’s all. You should have some fun.”

Maybe Caroline was right. Maybe she should just hop a train with the other girls and see the sights of France. Even without David, Paris had been fun.

But now responsibility was crushing her. Why, why in the world had Mother Griolet asked her to be her apprentice? Gabriella felt a rush of anger. It was as if with those few brief words the nun had stolen her youth, and a weight much too heavy had dropped with a thud on her shoulders.

Of course, agreeing to the plan would ensure that she would still be near David. Otherwise, in two short months, she was planning to fly to the States with her family for their furlough, and she might never see him again. If only he would come back from Algeria so she could know his thoughts. At any rate, taking on such a job just to be close to him was surely pitiful reasoning.

She tried to sleep, but her mind was racing. She flicked on her bedside lamp. The light made her wince with pain. She took her Bible from the nightstand and wondered where she should read to find the answers to her questions. She fumbled through the pages, but her head hurt too much to concentrate.

Mother. Mother could help her with the answers. For all these months, Gabriella had turned to Mother Griolet as a type of spiritual mentor. But now she needed advice from someone else. Someone removed from the situation.

She slipped out of bed, got a piece of stationery and a pen, then cuddled once again under the thick comforter. She started with news of the orphans and Anne-Marie. Then she cautiously mentioned David, knowing from her mother’s letters that she was already worried about their relationship. Finally she mentioned the proposal by Mother Griolet.

Mother, I am so confused! How can I know if God wants me here in this little village? It seems confining, crazy. I’m not patient enough to deal with the children all the time. And there is so much else I want to do and see. Maybe that is selfish. If I say yes, will I regret it later? And if I say no, will I feel guilty that maybe I missed God’s will?

She answered her own question. No one had said she would have to do this for the rest of her life. Maybe she could have a contract for a few years. Until someone more suitable could be found.

Suddenly she knew what Mother would do: make a list of the pros and the cons. Her head was still throbbing as she wrote furiously in the column under
cons
. In spite of her headache, she laughed. It was easy to see that the cons would win out.

But then she thought of Moses. Surely his list of cons had been longer than hers. Yet, in the end, he had gone because he was convinced that God had called him to the task.

But he had heard the living God speak to him, she reminded herself. Seen the burning bush and his rod changed to a snake. It would be easy to know what God wanted with all those signs!

Gabriella put down her pen and prayed silently.
I don’t want this, God. It’s too big, too hard, too everything for me. But You’re the One who is in control, and I do trust that You see beyond my feeble reasoning. Show me, Father.

She picked up the pen again and wrote under the side of the page marked
pros
, and by the time she finished, an entire page was filled.

She thought of her mother. She had left comfort and a promising future to follow her father to the lost country of Senegal when she was barely on the brink of womanhood. Her mother’s life had been hard, painful, isolated. But she knew what Rebecca Madison would say to all that. “Phooey! When you’re doing what God has called you to do, there is something that goes way beyond all the trappings of the world. It’s the beauty of sacrifice. I can’t explain it, Gabriella. You’ll have to discover it yourself.”

15

A heavy fog hung over the runway as the small aircraft touched the ground in Algiers. Roger Hoffmann breathed a sigh of relief. At least he had made it into this war-ridden country without a bomb exploding within the plane’s cabin. Yet, despite thirty years as a diplomat and all he had read of the gruesome details of the final showdown between the OAS and the FLN, the atmosphere inside the airport shocked him.

He was well acquainted with human misery and displaced citizens, but as he looked about at the hundreds, maybe thousands, of pied-noirs waiting for their planes, sitting on suitcases, pacing aimlessly, he thought,
These are the saddest looking people on the face of the earth
. The smells of tobacco and perspiration caught in the muggy afternoon air, suffocating him as he made his way through the crowds.

Eight years ago, when he had lived among these people, the country was in peace. Of course, the grumbling was growing louder. Rumors of a small terrorist group among the Algerians had spread. But no one had imagined it would gain such force as to become the powerful FLN of today. He had left at the right time.

Outside the airport, lines of cars were stopped in traffic, ready to deposit more pied-noirs and their few belongings. The telegram he had received in Washington just before departure instructed him to look for a red Peugeot by the northernmost exit. With suitcase and briefcase in hand, he strode confidently through the crowds, ignoring the stares. A six-foot-four American in a pin-striped business suit would stick out anywhere in Algeria.

Ten minutes later the Peugeot appeared. Roger half expected a turbaned Arab to emerge from the car with a machine gun in hand, opening fire on the restless throng of people. No one got out. As he approached the Peugeot, the passenger-side front window was lowered. A smartly dressed, middle-aged Arab nodded to Roger.

“
Bienvenue dans notre pays.
Welcome, M. Hoffmann,” he said politely. He nodded to the backseat. “Please get in.”

“
Merci
,” Roger replied. Experience had taught him to be on his guard. In a moment’s time he had sized up the situation. Simply the driver and the older Arab. The revolver concealed cleverly within his suit jacket was enough insurance for the ride. He opened the car door, placed his luggage beside him, and pulled the door closed. The Arab turned around. His skin was the color of weak tea, his eyes dark and hard.

“We’re very glad that you arrived safely, M. Hoffmann. My name is Ali Boudani. I am looking forward to working with you in the next few weeks.”

Five Arabs welcomed Roger Hoffmann to their headquarters in the Casbah. The headquarters consisted of a twenty-by-thirty-foot room concealed behind a cement wall within the recesses of a crumbling apartment. A low round table surrounded by richly embroidered cushions sat in the center of the room. After handshakes and official greetings, the men sat down on the thick cushions.